Jessica Alexander -- 400*640

Irene watched as the little creature was hoisted back onto Juniper’s shoulder, head tilting slightly in that quiet way of hers — like she was filing something away, not for judgment, just understanding. “She’s better trained than most customers,” she said dryly, a flick of something faintly amused in her voice. “Still, smart to keep her on your good side. I’ve seen people do worse damage with less motive than an empty stomach.”

She glanced at the basket again, making a quick mental inventory of the contents before nodding. “It’ll be safe here overnight. Counter’s got charms enough to keep anything from nosing in where it shouldn’t.”

At the mention of disorder and charm, something in her expression shifted — not quite a smile, but the hint of one in the corner of her mouth. “Some of the chaos has charm,” she allowed. “The rest just makes restocking hell.” Her gaze moved to a shelf where two nearly identical jars sat side by side, one faintly crooked. She didn’t move to fix it. “But I get what you mean. Places like this remember people. It’s better when they’re a little wild.”

Juniper’s next words slowed her hands. Not stopped them — Irene always kept moving, even when listening — but the gesture she’d started smoothing the corner of a label became more deliberate. She didn’t interrupt, just let the compliment settle in the space between them. There was no outward shift in her face, not much that could be called softness. But there was a kind of stillness that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Maybe the kind people give when something lands close to a wound, even if it doesn’t cut.

She shook her head slightly at the offer, the faintest scoff under her breath — more at herself than at Juniper. “Pretty sure Stephens would have my head if she came in and caught a customer sweeping the floor,” she said. “Might accuse me of conscripting labor again.”

But there was a flicker in her tone now — dry affection, maybe, or something like it. The offer had landed. Irene just didn’t always know what to do with kindness unless it came in the form of clean inventory or a labeled drawer.

“Still,” she added, eyes flicking briefly back toward Juniper. “It’s a good offer. And I appreciate it.”

A pause, then, “Don’t worry about it. Most of this I can catch up on in the morning. Just the usual close — lock the till, count the chamomile, wonder how it got this late again.”

She glanced toward the windows, where the light from the street painted streaks through the misted glass. Her voice dipped quieter, almost distracted: “Place likes to stretch time once it’s quiet.”

If she meant it to be a warning or just a remark, it wasn’t clear.

Then, she turned slightly, shoulders shifting, one hand already reaching for the last list to double check. “I’ll be out soon,” she said. “Walk’s better with company. And fewer surprises.”

Not a favor. Not even exactly an invitation.

But it was enough.

She laughed as she picked up Sage by scruff and returned her to her shoulder. “That is a very good point. She is surprisingly good about not eating things she shouldn’t. But it’s been a long day and I owe her a treat for sticking through it without being a pain. Best not to tempt a young and hungry stomach.” She rubbed her cheek against the furry creature affectionately. 

She nodded when the other offered to keep the basket overnight. That would free up her arms more which was never a bad thing. “A little disorder gives places like this personality. And there is no accounting for personal taste when it comes to organization. Either way it’s lovely and well taken care of.” 

She could tell Irene wasn’t much for conversation. Whether that was personal preference or professional habit she didn’t know. But there was clearly no hostility in the few words she spoke. And Juniper would be remiss if she didn’t even silently acknowledge the others' delicate care for those around her. It wasn’t personal, it wasn’t profitable. It was just her own good nature. Juniper liked that. An apothecary run by someone without care for their fellow man was an apothecary run by the wrong person. 

“If I’m overstepping, feel free to tell me off or charge me more; but I do feel awful extending the end of your day, especially when you have been so accommodating. If there is anything I can do to shave time off that 15 so you can get home faster. It would be my pleasure. Four hands make lighter work than two.” She wasn’t sure if Irene would take her up on the offer. It was an odd one, she wouldn't blame her for being off put. Not many people these days are willing to work for the simple pleasure of making something easier for someone else. But this place reminded her of her grandmother, it made her feel warm and it was nice to see old practices still holding up.

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

— Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

Irene didn’t flinch when Lucian sat beside her — didn’t look at him right away either. Her gaze stayed on the water, still as glass under the early dusk, the kind of quiet only Graver’s Isle could offer. She hadn’t lit anything yet — no incense, no candles, no circles scratched into the dirt. Just a blade laid across her lap and a half-wrapped strip of gauze beside her. Something about this place made it easier to think. To breathe.

But then his shoulder bumped hers, and that earned him a glance. Dry. Amused. Tired, but not unkind.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “— if you keep sneaking up on me like that, you’re gonna get yourself accidentally stabbed.”

Her eyes flicked down to the knife.

“And then I won’t be able to get my own tattoo.”

A beat. Then the corner of her mouth pulled, just slightly — not quite a smile, but close enough that it counted. The kind that said she didn’t really mind the company, even if she’d never admit it outright.

Her shoulders eased, a little of the edge bleeding off.

“I thought you liked keeping your insides inside, Lucian,” she added, tone dry again. “Could’ve fooled me, creeping up on baby hunters like that.”

She nudged him back lightly — all elbow and bone and the barest hint of playfulness that didn’t quite make it to her expression, but lived in the motion.

She glanced at him again, quieter this time.

“You working on anything out here?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like the water around them hadn’t carried a dozen unanswered thoughts she didn’t want to say aloud. Like Shiv's state. The fact Riven's magic was still lingering around a mind he shouldn't have been in the first place.

For: @ireneclermont Where: Graver's Isle

It wasn't uncommon to find her here, Irene, like some other hunters, seemed to prefer the solitude the isle provided, as opposed to the city. Lucian, himself, preferred to work on his weapons in the peace this place possessed. Not all of them though, some, Lucian preferred to work in the secrecy of his home. In his own makeshift lab.

He approaches slowly, though confident she wouldn't hurt him, and prepared if she tried anyway. Better not to spook a hunter.

There's an easy smile on his lips that lacks the dangerous edge that always promises something infinitely dark for most. A softness invoked in him that comes only from the missing of a sister that's about the same age as Irene. Something that makes him inherently human.

Sitting by her side, he only dares a soft push against her shoulder, a playful tone to his voice as he asks. "Penny for your thoughts?."

Irene didn’t laugh — not exactly — but there was a breath there that came close. The kind that started deep in the chest and never quite made it to sound. The kind that held just enough ache to make it feel real.

Her hand shifted to the edge of the coat where Allie still clung to the pinkie-loop, careful not to break it. The fabric hung loose now between them, heavy with rain and some unspoken thing that hadn’t quite found a name yet. She didn’t tug it back. Just let it be shared.

At Allie’s question, she glanced sidelong. The kind of look people mistook for cold when they didn’t know her. But it wasn’t distance. It was calculation — quiet, sharp. The pause between hearing and answering that Irene always took like she was weighing truth in her palm, seeing what it cost before she let it out.

“I don’t dislike people,” she said finally, her voice soft but grounded. “I just don’t think most of them know who they are.”

A blink. Slow. Rain traced lines across her cheek like it didn’t know it wasn’t tears.

“They want to be seen a certain way. They learn how to show it. What to hide. What looks like kindness. What passes for honesty.” She rubbed her thumb once against her other wrist, over the bracelet she always wore — an old habit, like counting. “Most don’t lie because they’re cruel. They lie because they’re scared. Of being known. Of being wrong.”

The quiet between them thickened again — not uncomfortable, just full.

“I’ve spent a long time learning how to read storms,” she added, not quite looking at Allie. “But I’ve got no gift for reading people who don’t know themselves.”

Her head tilted a little, enough to catch the girl’s gaze again.

“You’re not like that,” she said, simple and unembellished. “You say what you feel, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s too much. That kind of honesty? It doesn’t scare me. It just… takes time getting used to.”

The barest smile, more in her eyes than her mouth.

She stepped closer, not quite breaking the small distance but bridging it, coat drawn wider between them like a half-offered shelter. It didn’t matter that Allie didn’t like coats. Irene wasn’t offering the fabric.

“You always talk about warmth like it’s something you find,” she said, thumb brushing lightly against Allie’s hand. “But I think maybe you’re the one carrying it.” She used to be like that, but the world was too cruel and now Irene no longer knew who she was.

The rain hummed on around them, steady and familiar, a lullaby made of water and thunder. Irene breathed in slow, watching it roll off the rim of the streetlamp like silver thread.

“If you want to stay out a little longer, I’ll stay,” she said after a moment. “But if your lips start turning blue, I’m carrying you home, like it or not.”

And it wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a joke. Just a promise, folded quiet into the space between the storm and the stillness.

        her petulance melts away with the rain, skips around soaking her dress and falls to puddle on the ground, instead. no matter the curious song of this storm, she can spend any day dancing in the rain. irene isn’t always here, and she isn’t always willing. today, that’s something to celebrate, so allie’s quiet as she listens, finds it easy to comb through the wind that continues to sing louder, and louder, to find irene’s voice. it’s because it’s her heart that’s listening. what the storm does for irene, allie thinks it’s what the woods does for her. she thinks the storm is beautiful, even in it, she thinks the danger makes it even more so, tempting it to spin her up into the clouds. sometimes, that’s all it takes to bring her out here, to feel caught, and held by something wild.

        when she was small, they’d scared her. storms were bedtime stories weaved together with heavy warnings, and in combination with the noise, it would send a younger allie to hide under her bed, to pull on a locked door knob. now, of course, it was nothing like that, but something was making a soft sense of fear prick along her spine, because the storm smells like something deeper than normal. she’s just as curious as she knows that irene’s taking them in the right direction, somewhere safe. she trusts her.

        “ is that why you don’t like people? ”  her head tilts, the sincerity of her eyes finding irene’s again. she holds onto her, even to the thread in her pinkie, small and tender, and she wonders. the storm’s honest. doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.  “ you don’t think they’re honest? ”  but at least you know what you’re dealing with. when her head gets too loud, allie seeks out peace, instead of violence. she looks to the sound of the tree’s whisper, coos of creatures big and small, the soft sighs of petals and the gentle touch of the grass when it knows you need to rest. peaceful. but how many times had she torn herself to pieces just to quiet the noise that can’t be calmed? put magnifying glasses on the sparkly bits, shone like a mirrorball to hide whatever parts she was hurting.

        her friend’s apology cuts through the fog of thought, she finds irene again with eyes that look almost startled.  “ oh, it’s okay! ”  what could she ever have to apologize for? she hadn’t done anything wrong. allie’s the clumsy, clingy, messy one. she winds a finger around a strand of wet hair, pulling it away from her face, then letting it go. of course, it’s not the one entwined with irene’s pinkie.  “ i mean, i didn’t come out here to be caught by anyone, not- not on purpose, but, well, i guess … ”  loneliness flows through everything she does like a current. now, it carries her through the storm.  “ it’s always a plus, isn’t it? ”  then, like it’s supposed to further smother irene’s worry in petals and fluff.  “ and, anyways, i don’t like coats. they’re too heavy. plus, i like feeling the rain on my skin, that’s, like, the whole point. it’s only after that you get cold and sick and icky, and stuff. ”  she shrugs, then, tipping her head towards irene. of course, the ramble of nonsense had an exception.  “ i think there’s something warmer when it’s someone else's, though. it just makes it all the more lovelier. ”

Irene didn’t slow when the door shimmered open ahead of them — just tightened her grip on Shiv’s hand and stepped through like it cost her nothing. In truth, it did. Every second she stayed, every inch deeper she went into this fractured loop of their mind — it drained her. She wasn’t built for this. Her power lay in action, in the physical, in breaking things and building them back stronger. Minds were too soft. Too loud. The weight of someone else’s ruin pressed behind her eyes like a scream trapped under glass. But for Shiv?

She’d stay as long as it took. No matter how many times.

Even if it cracked her right down the middle.

She wouldn’t let them suffer in here. Wouldn’t leave them stranded inside their own wreckage. Shiv had been the only one who saw her — really saw her — without asking her to be anything more than what she was. Their kindness was quiet, careful. Not soft exactly, but real. That mattered. That always mattered. The world shifted as they passed through the threshold — a breath held between realities — and when she blinked, the desert was gone.

Now there was a beach.

Nighttime. Still, dark, and vast. The stars stretched endless above them, their shimmer soft over the slow-crashing tide. A breeze curled through the air, warm and clean, laced with salt and the faintest echo of wild lavender. The kind she remembered from southern coasts. The kind she hoped Shiv liked.

The sand here didn’t hum with strange magic or loops or teeth. It just was.

Safe.

A little further down the shoreline sat a small house — all weathered wood and crooked windows, roof sloped like it had exhaled. The porch light flickered gently, like someone was already home. Like someone was waiting. Behind it, just beyond the first dune, a bonfire burned low and steady. Not too bright, not too loud. A comfort, not a warning. And beside it — books. Piles of them. Every book she’d ever read. Stolen pages, annotated field manuals, quiet poetry, dumb thrillers from train stations, stories she half-remembered from her mother’s kitchen. All laid out, ready. Something to occupy Shiv while they rested. Something that felt human again.

“I can hold this place,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Shiv, still keeping their hand in hers. “For as long as you need it.”

She meant it.

Whatever toll this dreamspace took on her, she’d pay it twice. Three times. She’d bleed it out if that’s what it took. They reached the porch, and she didn’t let go until she was sure the loop wasn’t pulling anymore. Until the dream quieted.

Then, finally, she looked at them.

Really looked.

Not the handler. Not the mission. Not the broken mind trying to put itself back together — just Shiv. The only one who didn’t flinch when she was cold, or sharp, or impossible to read. The one who always stayed a step behind, steady, no matter how many times she tried to walk alone.

The words from before settled into the air between them.

She exhaled, long and low, eyes flicking away for just a moment — before they returned to Shiv’s face with something almost like warmth in her expression. Almost.

“The file doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care what was in it.” Bright hues met theirs — tired, but still burning. Still Irene. “I’m just… glad you remembered me.” Her voice dipped, gentler than it had been in hours. “If you hadn’t—” She didn’t finish. Just shook her head. “Things could’ve gone badly.”

A beat.

Then—

“You sound like my dad,” she muttered, glancing away again with a half-hearted scoff, the edge of a grin curling at her lips. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

It lingered — the smile. Brief but real. A crack of sunlight on a long-dry floor.

“I don’t think everyone sees it the way you do,” she added, quieter. “Nico would probably stab me in the back and then complain I bled on his boots.” A shrug. “But… for once, I’m glad I’m a witch.” She shifted, expression flickering with something unreadable. “Are you okay? Is this good? Comfortable enough for now?”

Because that mattered. It had to be his peace. Not hers.

She could feel the parts of Shiv’s mind she wasn’t supposed to be in, the flickering half-formed echoes of what had been lost — and what might be found again. Including her.

Including Thera.

And gods, Irene hated moments.

She hadn’t meant to see anything. That wasn’t what she came for. But minds didn’t exactly play fair, and some scraps came unbidden — laughter too close to lips, glances held a second too long. Thera, brushing dust from Shiv’s coat like it was instinct. It made Irene want to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull.

And gag. Just a little.

Still, she knew what it meant. Connection like that doesn’t vanish. Not fully. Not unless someone makes it vanish. And Irene… she didn’t believe Thera would ever do that to them.

There were ways to bring memory back.

But not tonight.

Not like this.

“Do you remember anything at all? Who did this to you? I —” she paused, exhalding deeply. “—I feel their magic. It's more than —” How could she even put this into words? She couldn't. “More than one witch did this.”

Shiv can only shake their head in confirmation. “Sorry. I’m having a hard time remembering much of anything lately.” It’s a mercy, a miracle that they managed to scrape up their memories of Irene a few moments before she arrived. Half of Shiv’s memories are gone and their mind is quite literally in ruins but gods forbid they lose their impeccable timing.

Do they like the beach? The question sounds ludacris, so much so that Shiv immediately answers absentmindedly. “Sure. A night at the beach sounds bloody lovely right now.” Of course Shiv follows Irene’s lead, both in conversation and on the path through the desert. They're not exactly in the right condition to argue or call shots. And they know that, pride by damned. Apologizing again wasn't going to do anything.

Irene never wastes time and energy on talk. When she does talk, it's important. Shiv is quick to remember that as they piece together the context clues sprinkled in her blunt attitude as the two silently walk hand in hand. 

This Thera is obviously important. ‘Accomplice’ isn’t strong enough to describe someone keeping them alive. Maintaining their physical body most likely. Yet, for what reason? It must be for good reason if this Thera would be glad to see the connection made. Right? There’s too little emotion in Irene’s face and voice to further work off of. That’s the second fact they remember about Irene. Never clear cut feelings out the gate with this one. Always patiently waiting for the right cues, the slightest micro-expression or the tiniest shift in her eyes to speak louder than words.

Shiv can't see either from here. However, her grip on their hand is tight, firm. As if they will crumple or fade away with the slightest breeze and shift in the sand.

“You're not the type that needs tracking. But you went missing anyway.”

She's worried.

They don't have any magic or useful tools to help her. But all Irene seems to need is reassurance, something to let her know they're still here. Touch. Noise. Anything.

Shiv squeezes Irene's hand back. They can do that.

"...I never got around to giving your file back, did I? Other business got in the way. The hurricane especially. Its just..." Shiv scratches their dry throat and swallows hard, "I would have let you burn the damn thing. Witch or nay, you're a good hunter. An even better comrade. No matter what happens, its an honor to be your handler."

"Moreso you confidant. Moreso your friend."

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she let her gaze drift past him, toward the corner of the shop where the shadows always settled a little deeper than they should’ve. Not menacing—just aware. The kind of quiet that had weight, like something waiting for its name to be spoken.

Her hand finally moved, tracing the rim of the tin absently before she pushed it back into line. Everything in its place.

“I pay attention,” she said simply. “Doesn’t take much more than that.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He had a look about himv —measured, like someone who knew how to watch without being obvious. Still, there was something under his skin that hadn’t settled right, something his own body hadn’t quite finished telling him yet. She didn’t prod at it. Didn’t need to. That sort of thing always surfaced on its own. The lounge would see to that.

“I go when I need to,” she added, tone neutral. “Not more than that.”

Then, after a pause, “And as for the lounge...”

She let her fingers drop from the shelf and turned her full attention back to him. Eyes sharp, but not unkind. Studying him the way you might study weather patterns—curious, careful, certain that a storm was coming even if the sky still looked clear.

The magic in his blood hums like a low current —quiet, but constant. Not the showy kind that crackles or bends the air, but older, threaded deep, like something inherited rather than learned. Irene can feel it even through the spell she keeps wrapped tight around herself, the one that softens the edges of her own presence, keeps her readable as nothing more than what she appears. It's a precaution, one born of necessity more than secrecy—especially with the way Hunters move these days. But no amount of masking can make her blind to what’s there. His magic isn't dormant, just waiting. Coiled in his bones like it knows what it’s for, even if he doesn’t yet.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said finally. Not cryptic for the sake of it —just certain. “Places like that don’t bother watching unless they’re waiting to be understood.”

He let the information wash over him, sinking in as Irene continued. The lack of any names was mildly frustrating, but she was right about the habits being more important. Gloves, cardamom, and glassware. They could remember that.

There wasn’t any of the concrete details he would prefer to rely on, but that was usually the case with unfamiliar magic. Patience was key, and he practiced it well, even if he did his best to cut the need for it out of his regular routine.

Irene herself was much like that kind of unfamiliar magic, help offered with unknown intentions, unknown mechanisms. He wasn’t one to be thrown by someone's odd demeanor, especially not when Irene was already being generally kind and helpful, but there was still that nagging sense of the unknown. Witches were rarely ominous for no reason, and only a fool would accept an outstretched hand and take it for more than the single step up that it offered.

Everything she said was good to know, but it opened up more questions, the first of which being, “How do you know all of this? About the patrons, I mean. Do you spend a lot of time in the lounge? And what do you mean by it watching me?”

Irene doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t need to. She just stands there for a second, letting the quiet settle. The weight of the question sits somewhere low — not heavy, not sharp, just… familiar. And when she answers, it’s not guarded or cold. It just is.

“My mom’s sick,” she says, plain and low. “So I read a lot.”

She doesn’t offer more than that. Doesn’t fill in the gaps or paint it prettier than it is. Just lets the silence take what it wants from it. There’s always been power in not explaining. Her eyes drift to the open door, to the sky that’s gone soft with dusk and too many unknowns. And she sighs. Not annoyed — not really. Just the tired kind. The kind that comes from caring more than you meant to.

Because she shouldn’t. Not like this. Not for someone who leaves pieces of herself in every corner of a room like she hopes someone else will pick them up. Not for someone who believes too easily and follows too far. But Irene’s never been good at drawing clean lines. Especially not when the danger’s real. Especially not when the girl looking up at her still thinks the night is something that’ll let her pass through it untouched.

“Fine,” she mutters, pushing the door all the way open. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t wait for thanks. Doesn’t say anything when their shoulders brush or when Allie keeps close enough that Irene can hear the soft drag of her sleeves with every step. “Just so we’re clear,” she says after a few blocks, tone dry but not distant, “This isn’t gonna be a thing. I don’t do nightly strolls.”

Still, she glances sideways. Just once. Just long enough to make sure the shadows behind them aren’t walking too.

        “ oh, sorry. ”  the pinch between her brows falls, slowly, the confusion melting into a fuzzy, almost acceptance. of course she believes irene, why would she lie? allie has this habit of leaving heaps of heavy hope in the arms of others, at least irene doesn’t have to carry them anymore. she refuses to let disappointment find her, and instead she finds something else to be excited about. she just works here, irene’s not a witch, it’s mostly just retail and she’s right but- the knowledge still has to be there, doesn’t it? it’s another bundle of questions that tucks near her heart, wraps around irene’s name.

        don’t sell yourself short. out of a few words, allie finds the world waiting for her. it’s so nice, the kind of nice she doesn’t deserve. because, really, it’s not true. she isn’t good for anything more than wishing. she keeps trying, it’s why the journals pages keep finding things to fill them. that’s her trying. to learn, and to grow, to be something more than lost. but it makes more sense the other way, for allie to stay a lost little thing. irene deserves more than speechlessness, but allie doesn’t want to argue anymore, and she can’t find anything to pull on, so she hopes her eyes say enough.

        her eyes flicker to watch the other’s movements. she puts space between them, fidgets with the little things around them irene’s trying to leave, allie, you have to let her go home-  “ how did you learn about it all? ”  she winds, unwinds a strand of her hair around a finger as the question cuts through, clear as the breaking day. like a sunlight that streams through an exhausted room, she can’t stop it. the curtain of curiosity won’t go back to where it belongs. she doesn’t mean to keep her here, daisy chained, really. she promises, she doesn’t. 

        allie holds out her hand, tries a soft offer that she hopes is just a gentle touch of clingy, not so much that it’s suffocating. irene always closes up when anything’s about her, and she’d barely made it through one wall, she can’t pry open another tonight. she doesn’t want to, anyways, you’re supposed to be let in. softly, allie tries, instead,  “ walk me home? ”  because she’s forgetful, because she slips into bouts of whimsy that has her ending up lost, because irene knows that, and she’s kind. another night, when allie hadn’t already messed up, they can try the other way. and it’ll be irene’s turn to share, again.

She didn’t answer at first.

Just stared —unmoving, unreadable—the knife still pressed flat against his neck like a question she didn’t want to ask out loud. Like if she let it go, everything she’d built to keep herself standing would tumble right down after it. Her fingers didn’t shake. Irene didn’t shake. But inside her chest, something was splintering open. Something she’d buried so deep under years of silence and steel that she barely remembered the shape of it anymore.

And then he spoke again.

Her breath hitched. The sound cracked through her like thunder under frozen lakewater —hairline fractures splintering outward from the center of her. It wasn’t the name that did it. It was the sound of his voice.

The knife dropped.

Not far —just to her side— but it might as well have been a thousand miles. She didn’t even remember stepping forward. Just that her arms were around him, tight, desperate, like if she let go now he’d dissolve into rain and fog and bad dreams. Her fingers curled into the back of his jacket. Her face pressed hard into his shoulder. She held on —like she was drowning, and he was the surface.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Irene breathed.

The kind of breath that didn’t rattle in her lungs. That didn’t feel rationed, or stolen, or half-hollowed out by the weight she’d grown too used to carrying. It hit her like air after too long underwater —sharp, real, cruelly kind.

“You’re not real,” she said against his collar, barely louder than the wind. “You can’t be. I don’t get to have this.”

But she didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until the storm stopped sounding like her heartbeat.

Not until she could trust her knees again.

She pulled back just enough to see him —really see him—and the moment her eyes caught his again, she asked,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It came out hoarse, like it’d clawed its way up from something deeper than her throat. She didn’t mean it like an accusation. Not exactly. Just—an ache, a question sharpened with disbelief. A heartbeat wrapped in barbed wire.

She clung to him like if she moved —if she so much as breathed wrong— he’d vanish into the mist again. Like the rain would cut through the space between them and prove he was never there at all, just a phantom conjured by too many sleepless nights and too many memories she’d tried too hard to forget. Her fingers dug in, not soft, not delicate—desperate. A tether. A lifeline. Like she could anchor him here just by refusing to let go.

Her face stayed pressed against the curve of his shoulder, and she inhaled like it might brand the moment into her lungs, like if she just memorized the scent of rain and asphalt and him, it would make the rest of the world less sharp tomorrow. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when it still felt like a dream that could turn cruel at any second.

"I missed you so much."

He’d caught the outline of her profile earlier, just enough for suspicion to rise. Then followed her into a shop, pretending to browse the next aisle over, just to catch the sound of her voice. A good night, a casual goodbye — something, anything that would prove it was really her. Next, he had his phone in his hands, fingers swiping up, up, up until his thumb stopped on her name. Irene. The screen stared back at him like a mirror. Call her, Riven.

No. If this wasn’t her, what would he say? Sorry I haven’t called in years? How have you been, little one? He didn't want to sound like a stranger, but that's all he has become to her.

Lost in his thoughts, eyes flicking up and down the screen, Riven lost his balance. Suddenly, a knife pressed too hard into his skin. He was slammed into a wall, like it was child’s play for her to physically tower over a man like him. There was a flicker of something raw in her gaze — pain, maybe hope, maybe the memory of a bond that time hadn’t fully erased. "Irene." a beat, "It's me." He kept his hands where she could see them; empty, and open, and unthreatening.

She didn’t lower the knife. Couldn’t, maybe. Not yet. Not until he'd proven that he wasn't a ghost. That he was something real. "You're not dreaming, It's me."

Rivy.

The word felt like it stole the air from his lungs, pulled him into a time machine, back years, when he was just a kid. Just a bit taller than her, only a few years older, just as inexperienced. Maybe even more alone.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out a hand. It brushed against hers, cradling the small of her wrist where she gripped the blade. "Come on. Put the knife down." He held her gaze. "I’m not going to hurt you."